


Evolution/Devolution

by suitesamba



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:23:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A text message,  a shot in the dark, a cab ride, an argument, a scuffle, and John goes from saving Sherlock's arse, to taking it. Four scenes in a parabola, told from both John's POV and Sherlock's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evolution/Devolution

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try my hand at a Johnlock with more explicit content and a more experimental style. The story moves backward through four scenes in John's POV, then forward through the same four scenes in Sherlock's. No specific storyline time reference - could be after or before RF.

_John_

~ 4 ~ 

He can’t sleep, won’t sleep, cannot even contemplate sleep. Not with the weight against his back, the hand splayed on his belly, the lingering smell of expensive soap on the pillow they share. Not with the memory imprinted on his brain, on the back of his eyelids, on his still-tingling mouth, on his exhausted and spent cock, of that long and lean prick, of testicles shaved smooth for whom (for what for why), of taut thighs, arse filling his hands even better than it filled those well-tailored trousers. Not with the whispered ghost of kisses (lips, tongue) and the textured contour map of chin to cheek to ear to neck to clavicle to pectoral to navel.

He’d wanted him. Had wanted him longer than he’d wanted anyone else without having him (having her) or giving up. Had suppressed the desire beneath layers of rationalisation and denial, paving misery on top of need, topping it with unsatisfying forays with others – less beautiful, less exasperating, less sensual, less brilliant – and drowning it all with bitter pints alone in crowded pubs.

His arse fits comfortably against him – his mate, his friend, his brilliant exasperating sensual ( _sensual_ ) lover. 

His lover.

Sherlock who never sleeps is sleeping. His chest rises and falls against John, his breath is even, long inhales followed by almost silent exhales. John is unused to the feeling. A man, Sherlock, someone behind him, hand on his belly, stubbled chin in the crook of his neck. Someone larger, hard and angular, with too-long limbs at rest in unfamiliar yet comfortable (natural, somnambulant) positions.

The early light of dawn has shifted the black of night into greys and mauves. He is in Sherlock’s room, in Sherlock’s bed, on Sherlock’s pillow, staring out Sherlock’s window. 

His arse is warm where Sherlock presses against it. His cock is hard again. He cannot help but touch it. Groan as he pulls with his hand and pushes with his arse until Sherlock shifts behind him, stretches like a cat, then pushes back, sleep walking still, searching as his prick, hard with morning need, slides against John’s cleft.

John knows the moment Sherlock’s eyes open.

Sherlock stills.

John hears (feels, sees) brain struggle against body. _Transport._

A frozen moment becomes two. Even the hand on his belly is cold.

John ends it. John shifts, rolls, reverses, faces Sherlock, pushes groin to groin and takes his mouth and works one hand down to adjust their cocks while the other brushes Sherlock’s chest, over nipples pebbled with cold and want. Fisting their cocks as Sherlock hisses, he moves mouth to nipple and latches on and he cannot see (can only imagine) the long expanse of neck as Sherlock arches backward.

“Don’t think,” John says on a sigh. A threat (a warning, a promise). _Don’t think._

~ 3 ~ 

He is boneless. He is stretched out over a body too tall and white and thin and sculpted to be anyone he has ever dared to want. He is spent. His prick has slipped from the clenching heat and lies against slick, flushed flesh. He is breathing fast. Sherlock is breathing fast. Heartbeats not in sync. John’s breath faster, Sherlock breathing through his mouth in deep and soundlesss exhalations.

He turns his head and John kisses the back of his neck, mouth moving from hairline to ear, laving and biting gently, possessively, and Sherlock allows it, and Sherlock moans.

John wants to be hard again. Wants to take him again as he just has. As Sherlock has taken him, leading as he always has (always does and always will), on his stomach, arse up, compelling John to follow his lead, to shoot to kill, once it became clear that they were doing this on _his_ bed, in _his_ room. His turf. His rules. 

John has never had a man before. Shag. Frot. Suck. Simple mechanics. Sherlock a master instructor. Who knew (who could have guessed, who would have doubted)?

Sherlock Holmes. 

Lube in the bedside drawer. Lightly trace the edges. Work the rim. Circle. Press. Pad of one finger. Slow. First knuckle. Withdraw. Work the rim. Circle. Second knuckle. Slide and twist and crook and out and again _now two_ and find the prostate. You know the prostate John. You’re a physician. You’ve done this a hundred times.

A thousand.

 _But not like this. Not naked against you with my cock harder than stone, with my brain ahead of me, replacing fingers with prick, and clenching my arse and wanting. Wanting it. Wanting you – wanting_ you _._

_You._

Sherlock takes his own cock in hand as John presses fingers inside him. 

_Transport transport transport_ but _more_ than transport.

Two fingers sliding in together, sliding out together, and he is mesmerised by the motion, by the sight of the act, by the grip of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock stifles a moan as he pulls at himself and John is too wired to think how wrong he was about Sherlock. 

Three. Another. _More._ Work them. Work it. Work me. This strange and sensual Sherlock is moaning beneath him, is jerking himself slowly, is pressing his arse back against John’s fingers and John is a voyeur, a spectator, floating above the bed, and it is as much of a turn-on to watch as to participate, but Sherlock sucks him down with the gravity that surrounds him, that pulls in curious spectators and active participants and light and sound and motion, and John is watching his fingers and wonders (thinks, believes) that three fingers will never be enough. Fingers, hand, arm, shoulder, all sucked in until what remains is his heart and that, too, shall be given.

That, too, has already been offered. Been taken. Been sacrificed.

And John is lining up his cock, one hand on the narrow hip, clenching, holding back, not yet giving, but Sherlock does not wait for what he wants once he has decided he wants it. He pushes back with clear intent and the head of John’s prick disappears inside him and it is nothing like a woman and everything like Sherlock and everything he didn’t know he needed (everything he always always wanted).

And he comes alive with it. Presses in slowly, watching with fascination and disbelief and exhalation and triumph – _triumph_ – as he is swallowed by Sherlock, as he claims Sherlock. And Sherlock is making the most guttural of noises, sounds that cannot be coming from Sherlock are coming from Sherlock, and he is pulling John in and pushing him out and John fights for control but Sherlock is having none of it.

John gives in. He has never before been fucked like this from the top but he is powerless to change it. His grip on narrow white hip tightens and he rolls with the rhythm of it and the bed is a ship and Sherlock is his anchor, his port in the storm.

The slow slide in, the slow pull out, is not enough. 

“Faster?” he asks (begs) and Sherlock answers with a quick, backward jerk and he is buried in him, buried to the bollocks, and it is hot and slick and fuck so warm and tighter than ropes around his body (around Sherlock’s body). He presses a palm to Sherlock’s back now, and it slides on a glistening layer of perspiration, and he wraps it around Sherlock’s belly, splays his fingers on the flesh and pushes in and kisses Sherlock’s back and breathes on him as a thousand springs coil in his belly and every brain cell explodes and rushes to his cock and the fingers on Sherlock’s belly slide down and meet Sherlock’s fingers and move with his, twist, compress, pull at flesh both hard and velvety soft. He pulls out and presses in almost mechanically because his mind is locked on the hand on Sherlock’s cock, following its lead, feeling its length, yielding to its will. 

His hand is still on Sherlock as Sherlock comes, and Sherlock’s arse contracts (John _feels_ it), and John presses a second hand, sticky and warm, on Sherlock’s hip, and pulls out of the clenching grip and slams back in, mind grey and foggy and blurred on the edges until he, too, releases, a million tiny suns going supernova in his brain, and falls onto Sherlock’s back, arms squeezing around Sherlock’s chest, thighs pressing thighs, until finally he chuckles, and Sherlock lets a deep breath escape, and John presses lips to Sherlock’s neck and passes silently into the next glorious and unexpected phase of his life.

John and Sherlock.

~ 2 ~ 

The cab ride is silent and simmering and there is not enough air in the car and not enough space between them.

On the curb in front of 221B, John waits impatiently while Sherlock pays the cabbie and watches him leave, back to John, before whirling on him, face grey and stony.

“While I appreciate your desire to keep me around to pay half the rent, I cannot remain here if you aren’t around to contribute your half. Do not put yourself between a madman and myself again unless you have a drawn weapon and an unobstructed shot.”

“You’re welcome,” growls John, nearly throwing himself against the flat’s door, key in hand, incensed at Sherlock’s one-sided blindness. He pushes the door inward and pounds up the stairs without looking back. Goes in the kitchen without throwing the light switch, fills a glass with ice and tops it with scotch. The expensive looking bottle from the back of the cabinet that was there when he moved in and has remained there, untouched, all this time.

“Was there something in our lease I missed?” John lashes out, dropping into his chair to find Sherlock already on the sofa.

Sherlock levels his gaze on him, dark and intense, disapproving yet aloof. 

“You react,” he says. “You do not _think_.”

“You do more than enough thinking for both of us,” John retorts, taking a long slow drink then letting his head drop onto the back of the chair.

Sherlock turns his head slowly. “And you more than enough drinking.”

John turns his head away. “Arse.” He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t drink too much. He downs another long swallow, pushes the half-empty glass onto the table and stands. 

“I’m off to bed.”

Sherlock looks at him but does not speak.

“What? No ‘Goodnight, John.’? No ‘Pleasant dreams’? No ‘Thanks for saving my scrawny arse again?’”

Unbelievably, slowly, Sherlock stands.

“We should discuss this.”

John blinks at him. Then he laughs.

“Go to bed, Sherlock. You’ve obviously had a blow to the head. You’re not yourself.”

“You can’t keep doing this, John.” Sherlock takes a step closer. “You’re going to get yourself killed. You’re not my bodyguard.”

“You _need_ a bloody bodyguard!” John recoils and eyes the glass on the table. Sherlock steps in front of it.

“I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“Then what _do_ you need? A blogger?”

Sherlock frowns. “I don’t _need_ anything. I –”

“You need some common sense. Someone to tell you to eat. To sleep. Bloody marvel you remember to shower and change your pants.”

Sherlock is staring at him now. His shoulders tense.

“Oh – and someone to pick up after you. To look after this place before the neighbors call for the health inspectors when the smell gets too bad.”

“Go to bed, John.” Sherlock brushes by him, back ramrod straight. 

John grabs his wrist.

“Where are you going?” He jerks Sherlock toward him. “We’re not finished.”

“We’re finished _tonight_ ,” says Sherlock. He pulls away from John and strides toward his room.

John is on his heels. “We’re not finished, _Sherlock_. Do you have any idea what you _did_ to me tonight? You can’t go after serial killers alone and expect me to see your text message the moment it comes in. You can’t _count_ on me like you do. One of these days I won’t get the text in time. It will be too late, or I won’t be able to find you, or I’ll walk into a trap and I’ll be dead too.”

“Exactly,” says Sherlock. “You drew his fire. He nearly killed you tonight, John.”

“He nearly killed _you_!” They are inside Sherlock’s bedroom now, and John grabs his arm again as he spins around away from John, and the movement knocks John off balance, into Sherlock, and Sherlock stumbles backwards, John against him. 

They land hard, on the bed, and there is no question now of what to do with their anger as Sherlock rolls atop John and John stretches forward to kiss that expression off Sherlock’s face before Sherlock can kiss him first.

Hard and angry and demanding, hands scrabbling at each other for purchase, John’s hand in Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock’s hands cup his face, hold him still, and suddenly there is no anger. It has dissipated, vanished, melted, and the lips on John’s are the softest lips he has ever kissed, the mouth the sweetest he has ever tasted. He is beneath Sherlock but this is _his_ kiss, the kiss he’s been waiting for all his life. He can barely breathe with it, and he knows there are tears on his face and he doesn’t care. The kiss goes on and Sherlock is sucking the very soul from him and then their arms are around each other, pulling each other close, heads buried in necks, sobbing and laughing and hugging each other possessively and then Sherlock whispers into his ear.

_I want you._

~ 1 ~ 

He’s at dinner with Harry. She’s been out of rehab three weeks now, and dinner is awkward without wine, but he soldiers on – they both make it through. Dessert comes with coffee and they linger over it, for it’s cold and wet outside and neither fancies going out in the wind and the rain.

They’re laughing about some remembered moment of childhood when the text comes, for John doesn’t hear it, and if Harry hears it she doesn’t call it out. Moments like this are rare enough between them, laughter without lament, and they drink another cup of coffee before saying their goodnights and stepping out into the cold.

Harry goes east and he goes west, pulling out his mobile as he scans the streets for a cab. 

_–1660 Hyacinth Ave London. Need you. SH –_

He’s cold and wet and tired and even though it was a good meeting with Harry, it’s taken its toll on him. 

_– Just saw this. Still need me? –_

He manages to stop a cab and climbs on board and checks his mobile. Nothing. Directs the cabbie to Hyacinth Ave – a thirty minute drive if the traffic is light – and checks his mobile again. And again. 

Nothing.

The house is dark and he pays the cabbie a king’s ransom for the long drive and stands on the walk and listens and checks his mobile and listens some more.

There is a light in the house, a dimly lit window on the side of the house near the rear. He crawls under it. Checks his mobile. Curses silently as a thorn bush rakes the side of his face. 

There are muted voices. He stills. He listens. He strains to hear. He is sure, he is absolutely sure, that one of the voices is Sherlock’s. Patiently he waits. Listens. Sherlock is talking with a man . Dragging the conversation along. Bargaining. 

Waiting for John.

John doesn’t have his gun. John has nothing but his mobile, and his wits.

He forwards Sherlock’s text to Lestrade, adds a quick plea of his own. _– Come now. –_

Five minutes later, a gun fires inside.

The bullet rips through his heart without touching his flesh.

Heart in his gut, anguished, empty, he holds his breath one long moment until he hears Sherlock’s shaky voice again.

He locates the back door, tries it, finds it unlocked. Slips inside quietly, makes his way through the kitchen to the room where Sherlock is being held.

With nothing but a knife hurriedly pulled from the kitchen block and his foolish bravery to protect himself, he steps sideways in the doorway to the room where Sherlock is being held. The killer, off balance, fires at him, but the bullet passes between his head and the doorframe, burning his ear, and he drops his gun when John, adrenaline firing, tackles him to the ground, recovers the gun, keeps it trained on him until Lestrade’s team arrives. Sherlock is tied to a chair. His nose is bleeding, his hair caked to his head above his ear.

Donovan unties Sherlock while John is questioned.

Sherlock is livid.

_Sherlock_

~ 1 ~ 

He suffers the medic who tries to check him over. He holds a cloth to his nose while a medic prods at his head and he stares at John while the medics turn to him and bandage his ear where the killer’s bullet grazed it.

The grazed edge of John’s ear is .42 inches from his skull.

Sherlock stares at the blood on John’s shirt. Cannot ignore the blood on John’s shirt. Hates the blood on John’s shirt. 

Lestrade sits him in the kitchen on a wooden chair and someone drapes a shock blanket over his shoulders. They’re checking John’s hearing now and he is not happy. Of course he’s not happy. He was almost killed. He stepped, armed with a kitchen knife, in front of a killer armed with a gun. Stupid stupid stupid. Where the fuck was _John’s_ gun?

Lestrade is grilling him now and he ignores the inane questions and instead gives a statement that contains all that Lestrade needs to know, and probably more, but he watches John the entire time. John is sitting in a different wooden chair in another part of the kitchen and he is rubbing his forehead, and frowning. He is staring at Sherlock instead of looking at Lestrade.

Sherlock drops the bloody cloth on the table.

It is an interminably long time before they are told they can leave, and Lestrade offers a car, but John has already pushed his way out of the house and Sherlock goes after him.

They stare at each other as they stand under the streetlight. Shivering. It is still cold, still windy and still drizzling. 

“Where’s your gun?” demands Sherlock and John narrows his eyes.

“You didn’t put that part in your text.” His retort is angry. Why is _John_ upset? 

They argue, and Sherlock cannot understand John’s anger. 

A cab materialises out of the rain and they slide in, Sherlock beside John, and head toward Baker St.

~ 2 ~ 

The tension is heavy, the air is thick, and Sherlock is angrier still when they arrive at 221B.

He has been thinking. He is always thinking. John is angry. John has looked out the opposite window the entire ride. John feels justified in his anger. 

John is not justified.

He pays the cabby as John stalks to the door, but as the cab pulls away he cannot hold it in any longer. 

“While I appreciate your desire to keep me around to pay half the rent, I cannot remain here if you aren’t here to contribute your half. Do not put yourself between a madman and myself again unless you have a drawn weapon and an unobstructed shot.”

John growls something at him and throws himself at the door, unlocking the flat and storming up the stairs ahead of Sherlock. Sherlock takes his time. Closes the door softly behind him. Stops and listens for Mrs. Hudson. Takes two breaths. Three. Looks up the flat stairs then climbs them slowly and goes directly to the sitting room where he removes his coat and sinks onto the sofa.

How did this night go so wrong so fast?

John comes into the room with a glass of amber liquid – scotch, the Macallan. He of course has no idea that it’s a 1958, perhaps a thousand pounds for the bottle. He drinks it. He does not sip it, taste it, savor it, enjoy it. It is a vehicle to take him to temporary oblivion. Liquid courage.

He drops into his chair. The scotch sloshes onto his trousers. 

“Was there something in our lease I missed?” he asks.

John is speaking nonsense. He is insinuating that their lease dictates the terms of their relationship. 

“You react. You don’t think,” Sherlock explains calmly. _You almost got yourself killed. You stepped in front of a madman with a gun. You weren’t armed._

John says Sherlock does plenty of thinking for the both of them. He is implying that he, himself, does not have to think. Sherlock looks at the glass John is holding. He makes a comment about John’s drinking that he knows will push John’s buttons.

John calls him an arse. 

Sherlock isn’t an arse because he enjoys getting a rise out of John. He’s an arse because he wants John alive. 

John says he is heading for bed, and Sherlock lets him go.

But John doesn’t really want to go to bed. He wants an argument. 

They argue. They argue all the way into Sherlock’s room. Sherlock is keenly aware of the moment John crosses the threshold of his room behind him.

The very air in his room changes.

And it is Sherlock who has the realization first. That John is scared. That John does not want to hear bullets fired in a house where only two men are inside and one of them is Sherlock and Sherlock does not have a gun. He does not want to imagine his best friend bleeding out on a cold tile floor. Sherlock shakes John off him twice – John who grabs his wrist, his arm. But John is adamant, and John is angry, and John wants to feel.

And Sherlock – god does Sherlock want to feel. Ever since John awakened something in him, months and months ago. The realization that life would be something less, something smaller, something duller.

Without John.

It is his secret. A weakness that will cripple him.

He sees John now in his bedroom, incensed, eyes on fire, fed up. There is a scuffle of sorts, and he stumbles as John falls against him, and they drop together onto his bed, John atop Sherlock, faces inches apart.

For a moment, Sherlock cannot breathe.

Rational mind tells him to flee. 

But John is soft above him, hard atop him. His breath in his face smells like scotch. His lips part, as if to speak. As if to kiss the shocked look off of Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock’s rational mind abandons him.

He rolls John so that he is on top, and bends down to kiss that mouth, because it is _right there_ and this is _his_ room and _his_ bed and _his_ rules should apply. 

His room his bed his rules.

His John.

Before his lips can reach John’s, John is stretching up to kiss him.

John has taken control from underneath Sherlock, and Sherlock groans into his mouth as John’s hands grip his head, as their mouths move together, wet heat and moist breath and pressure and tongue and John is sucking the heart right out of him and he is aroused so fucking fucking aroused he cannot see straight. 

It is a foreign feeling, and he hates the loss of control, wants to fight it, cannot fight it.

And Sherlock knows there are tears on his face, and he can’t, at first, reconcile the moisture in his eyes with anything physiological. He only knows that John is kissing him, and he is kissing John, and he wants nothing more than to keep John close. To keep John here, against him, in his bed, in his arms. They are wrapping their arms around each other, and John’s head fits in the crook of his neck, and someone is laughing, and someone is crying, and beneath him Sherlock feels John’s erection, hard against his hip, and he wants more than he’s ever wanted. Wants this to end well. And right. And good.

He whispers in John’s ear.

“I want you.”

~ 3 ~ 

Sherlock is not a virgin.

His body, no matter what he claims, is more than transport. It is a beast. He does not grapple with it often. He tames it with self-gratification when it demands attention. 

John is draped over him, heartbeat racing, breath coming in pants. John’s prick has slipped from him now, and Sherlock’s arse is throbbing, but he is high, euphoric, spent, breathless, boneless. John shifts and kisses him on the neck, works his mouth to Sherlock’s ear, sucking on that spot – that spot fuck fuck fuck – and Sherlock moans.

It’s been Sherlock’s game from the beginning, though John was a willing participant, a team player. Sherlock on his stomach, knees under him, arse high. Pale flesh, long limbs, dark curls on white sheets. He knows John’s never had sex with a man before, but the mechanics are simple and he wants this enough to talk John through it.

They’ve snogged each other nearly senseless. John doesn’t need guidance in this. His hands grip Sherlock’s arse, caress his shoulders, move down to palm his cock, skirt over his balls. Sherlock pulls open the bedside drawer, fumbles for the lube, tosses it on the bed. 

He struggles not to moan as John prepares him. His head is turned to the side, resting on a pillow, and he tells John what he wants. Trace the edges. Work the rim. Circle. Press in. One finger, first knuckle. Withdraw. Work the rim again. Circle. In to the second knuckle. Twist. Crook. Second finger, find the prostate.

John is a quick study. John is a physician. He finds Sherlock’s prostate readily, works it perfectly, and it is the most delicious of tortures, and Sherlock rocks and presses up and no one ever has made him feel what John Watson is making him feeling now. He is pliant. He is greedy. He wants John’s fingers, wants John’s cock. Wants John.

Wants John.

His own cock is hard, leaking. Sherlock grasps the shaft as John’s fingers move inside him. Two fingers, in and out, the slide, the burn, the stretch. 

John is not hesitant. John wants this as much as Sherlock wants it. How could Sherlock have been so wrong about John?

He asks for another finger. Three. In me. _In me._ Sherlock demands, jerking himself slowly, pressing his arse back against John’s fingers. Deeper. Deeper. Reaching for heart and soul. Three fingers is not enough. Sherlock wants more. Wants everything. Wants it now. He bucks back against John’s hand and John crooks his finger and presses against his prostate and Sherlock nearly comes then. He is panting as he tells John enough. To fuck him (fuck him fuck him fuck him) now.

The head of John’s cock presses in him as one hand grips his hip. John’s moan as he presses slowly into Sherlock is raw, layered with want. Sherlock presses back and takes more, and John slows him with that hand, grunts out a warning, presses forward and he is sliding into Sherlock and Sherlock is biting his hand and wanting (needing, demanding) more. He is grunting – undignified, base, course – and is fighting John for control and keeping it. _His_ room _his_ bed _his_ rules.

John is in him bollocks deep now and he is trembling (trembling). Sherlock feels the motion as John grazes his prostate again and he nearly sings. He bites the back of his hand.

It is not enough. Not nearly enough.

John presses a palm to Sherlock’s back now, and it slides on a glistening layer of perspiration, and he wraps it around Sherlock’s belly, splays his fingers on the flesh and pushes in and kisses Sherlock’s back and breathes on him as his fingers on Sherlock’s stomach slide down and meet Sherlock’s and thread with his, twist, compress. 

A thousand springs are coiled in Sherlock’s groin as his hand and John’s hand (as their hands) work his cock, as John’s cock works his prostate, as John lets loose and pounds into him. John’s hand is still on Sherlock as Sherlock comes, brain grey and foggy and blurred at the edges (vulnerable), and John is still pounding against him as he spirals downward. John presses a second hand, sticky and warm, on Sherlock’s hip, and pulls out of the clenching grip and slams back in and comes and pulses and bites Sherlock’s back and stills.

They lay together, and Sherlock lets a deep breath escape, and John presses warm soft lips to Sherlock’s neck and they pass silently into the next glorious and unexpected phase of their lives.

Sherlock and John.

~ 4 ~ 

He stays awake long after John has fallen asleep.

He will never sleep again. Not with John Watson in his bed. Not with the weight of him pressed back against his chest, his stomach beneath his hand. Not with the smell of John, the expensive scotch, the clean, antiseptic odor of the surgery. Not with the memory embedded in his head and heart and eyes of John’s thick cock, his smooth lips, his cheek rough with stubble. John naked, sweaty, groaning in his bed, pounding into his body, his weight heavy on his back, his breath hot on his neck.

Even now, as John’s chest rises and falls in sleep, he cannot forget the taste of his mouth, the feel of his lips, the texture of his teeth and gums beneath his questing tongue.

He’d wanted John, the want an aching constant in his life. Had suppressed the want (the need, the ache) because John did not want him. Because they were friends. Flat mates. It would complicate things. It would turn their comfortable life inside out. Expose it. Expose them. Expose each other. Expose hearts better left untested. 

Because his body was transport. Because his heart was a mere muscle.

Yet he had never consciously erased (deleted) the pulling want, the pressing desire.

And now he breathes in tandem with John. John sleeping. John sighing. John spent and exhausted. John sweaty and sated. 

He kisses John’s shoulder. John does not feel the press of lips. Does not see it as a weakness. A claiming. A liquid caress. 

His thighs press against John’s thighs. 

He cannot believe John Watson is sleeping in his bed. His mate, his friend, his exasperating, sensual ( _sensual_ ) lover. 

His lover.

Sherlock, who does not sleep, whose body is transport only, closes his eyes – and sleeps. 

The early light of dawn has shifted the black of night into greys and mauves when John, warm against him, presses back, buttocks against Sherlock’s morning erection. John pushes until Sherlock shifts, then stretches, then pushes back, sleep walking still, searching as his prick, hard with morning need, slides against John’s cleft.

Sherlock’s eyes open.

He stills.

His brain struggles against body.

A frozen moment becomes two. His hand on John’s belly is heavy and cold.

But John saves him.

He shifts, rolls, reverses, faces Sherlock, pushes groin to groin and takes Sherlock’s mouth and works one hand down to adjust their cocks while the other brushes Sherlock’s chest, over nipples pebbled with cold and want. John fists their cocks and it is too much (never enough) and Sherlock hisses as John moves mouth to nipple and latches on and Sherlock arches his back and moans, all thought escaping him. He is supple clay (dust to dust) beneath John’s hands.

“Don’t think,” John says on a sigh. A threat, a warning, a promise. _Don’t think._

_Fin_


End file.
